Detox
by Last Fading Smile
Summary: After her mother's murder, Hawke snaps under pressure & lashes out in response, making some poor choices. Varric & Anders try pull her out of her spiral, Anders struggles with his own demons. Angst ahoy! An old piece I'm just getting around to posting
1. Chapter 1

There were no words, nothing that could or should be said. No single thing could be uttered that would serve any purpose but to give shape to a horror that should have no form, no place, not in thought or deed and especially not as an actual happening in the life of one of their own. Denial was better, safer. At least for now.

It was a long walk back to the estate in Hightown, each heavy footfall punctuating that grim silence. Each heart ached, each head reeled, each gut churned. There were no tears, no sobs, no physical betrayals of where minds dwelt or what hearts felt. She was stoic, or numb; her friends shocked into uselessness. Sheer force of repetition put one foot in front of the other. Habit guided her home.

Home. Was it still? What was there that afforded it such a weighted title? Possessions? Familiarity? The hanging crest of past generations of someone else's dead relatives? Not hers, not really. They were nothing to her, just names in a recollection; anecdotal ancestors.

_They're all dead now._

They came upon the looming stone facade of the estate, as oppressive as the regime that had built it, and silent sobriety gave way to the worst kind of discomfort. There was no known etiquette for this type of thing, no inherent wisdom any of them possessed on how to behave in these worst of imaginable circumstances. Hawke came to a standstill just inches from the immense wooden door – _and had it always been that __**big**__? – _while her three companions lingered a ways behind, there but not there, awaiting a cue. Some sign, some motion, a word to know what she wanted of them, needed of them.

The night sky felt so close, a low ceiling of callous beauty and false freedom. The atmosphere around them all was suddenly chill, suddenly asphyxiating, like dank cave air. They suppressed their want for noisy gasps in favour of a quite suffocation. They shifted, each of them, from foot to foot as their bodies grew too heavy for tense muscles to bear.

"I need to be alone," she finally said. She sounded cold, distant. There, but not there.

"Are you sure?" one asked. She did not know which. It did not matter.

"Goodnight," she replied, pushed open the heavy door and was swallowed by the darkness of the foyer within.

Her companions lingered outside for a time, silently debating whether to stay or to leave, eyes everywhere but upon other eyes. One after the other they peeled away, slinked back to their homes to drink, to hide, to deny, to lie awake so fraught with concern and helplessness.

And because the things they'd seen in that madman's lair were not conducive to dreaming.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Days passed with no word. Attempts at consolation were met with unanswered knocks on her locked bedroom door, pleas uttered through oak and responded to with silence. Varric and Anders had all but given up trying to initiate, and hoped that time would bring her back to them. They had taken solace in each other's company, slung low on stools in the quietest corner of the Hanged Man, drinking. With each shot of whiskey Justice stirred anxiously; Anders quashed. He stopped short of drunkenness, but it was the buzz he sought; the headiness, the lightness, the fleeting taste of something resembling freedom, so long lost.

They didn't talk, not really. Not about anything in particular. They danced around the topic of Hawke like a pair of clumsy wallflowers, all feet and unwieldy inelegance. The initial shock and disgust had given way to simple sadness and commiseration for a friend who did not want their camaraderie. It was an ongoing conversation about their resignation, and whether they were doing the right thing in leaving her alone, choice or no.

It was their third or fourth revolution on that ineloquent merry-go-round when Aveline busted in, her cheeks redder than her fiery hair; a rare showing of vexation. Her stride was long, forceful, and her mouth was already forming the words her brain had not yet decided it wanted them to speak. Bitter green eyes, brimming with hurt.

"Bitch!" she spat.

Anders was already rising from his seat, his brow beginning to furrow and his gut twinge in the familiar way that told him he had to be careful. This is why drinking was dangerous, he recalled. He was freer with his emotions than a man of his circumstances had any right to be. He focused on his breathing, centred on his mana, and ignored the claws of Justice needling at the edges of his self. _Not a provocation,_ he reminded himself, _and certainly not one you have any proper claim to answer._

"Calm down, Aveline, and start at the beginning," Varric cooed. "I take it you saw Hawke? I'd ask how that went, but that seems a little redundant."

She glared, but her flush was gradually waning. "She blames _me_ for her mother's death. She said if I was any good at my job, I would have saved her."

"She's hurting," Anders countered, defensively, and they all heard it; he did not care_. And she's right, _he sneered silently. Images flashed through his mind of those last horrible moments, of Salem cradling that stitched-together doll wearing her mother's face, and the crushing realisation that all the beneficial magic he possessed, that she possessed, was not enough to overcome the heinous magic of another so twisted and vile. _Blood mages_. _They hurt the cause. __**They must be punished**_. And, breathe. _**Anders**__. Anders. Breathe._

"Still, she saw you! That's encouraging," Varric offered, speaking more toward the mage. This was the first contact any of them had had with Hawke, and if anyone was going to get through to her now, he stood the best chance.

"Saw me, no, but she did scream through the door."

"Details," the dwarf said with his trademark blithe glibness. "Blondie, maybe you want to—"

Anders was strides away before Varric could complete his thought, and then gone, leaving the dwarf to coddle the sulking guard captain as he saw fit.

The days were getting colder and shorter. The sun was already setting, hung low in the dimming sky like some impractical ornament; the kind gifted by an infrequently seen acquaintance, brought out on display only to save face during awkward visits. This time of year it provided no real warmth, was up too late and set too soon to be of any real use to anyone; only served to illustrate how fleeting time was, how fluid and flexible. How the world and the life within it bent to its whims. The sun was a cold mistress, a dual edged blade. Like so many of the Maker's 'gifts'.

By the time he reached Hightown, most of the merchants had packed up for the day and gone home. The streets were no place to be after dark; someone was always trying to take over at night. He was close to the estate now, just across the square, up the stairs and around the corner. The traitor in his chest began to palpitate as he neared, hoping she would see him, let him in, let him comfort her _somehow_. Justice chided him for his foolishness. Anders' thoughts recoiled obediently from those places he knew they _should_ not venture, but frequently did all the same.

_**Frivolity**_.

_Yes, frivolity_, he snapped, _would do me, and __**my**__ body, the world of good now and again. _

Silence.

When he reached the door, he hesitated a moment, steeling his resolve. When he was satisfied that he was properly self-controlled, he pounded rapidly with his fist. Barking. He almost cringed. The hound was sweet enough, and smart—too smart!—but he had never been a dog lover. Ironic really, for a Ferelden. Maybe he was broken.

_ Understatement_.

A quiet shuffling of feet and a grunting heave and the door swung open, the frail elven servant girl struggling against its mass.

"Messere," she whimpered. _Everything_ she said was a whimper; it irritated him. He forced a platitude and stepped inside, relieving her of the door and shutting it behind him. She returned a thin smile and looked away.

"Ahhh, Messere Anders," came Bodahn's distinctive trill. He wandered into the entrance hall, his face dark, an impossible grimness from a man who made his livelihood cordially convincing folk to buy trash and random findings like were gilt in gold. "It's good you came."

"And yet you look troubled." Anders felt his gut tighten again.

"Why yes, I dare say troubled is just such the word. It's the young Lady, you see. I fear that she is not taking the terrible tragedy of Mistress Amell's passing too well, none too well at all, messere. If there is anything you can do to calm her down…?" His voice trailed off into silent melancholy. Behind him, by the fireplace, the dog whined in similar tone, then flumped his massive body down into a heap.

Anders pushed past him and headed for the stairs, taking them two, three at a time, avoiding eye contact with the portrait of Salem's mother at the top. He could not see that face, not even a gaudy approximation of it, without reliving that night. He could not begin to imagine how difficult it must be for her daughter.

He paused at her door, pressed against it, listening. Sobbing, or cursing, maybe both; it was hard to tell through the dense wood. _Breathe_. He grabbed at the doorknob and gave it a gentle twist, surprised to find it unlocked, and entered wordlessly.

Anders looked around the shambled room, incredulous. Bedding strewn across the floor, crumpled sheets of paper torn from blank journals, entire tomes smouldering in the fireplace, clothing and undergarments—his cheeks flushed—draped and tossed around everywhere with abandon. Empty wine bottles, at least seven that he could count, and a quantity of other, smaller bottles; familiar, but his overwhelmed mind struggled to process the carnage and still function enough to identify them. And the smell...Maker, the smell, somewhere between sweet and sour, tart and acrid; the entire room reeked of red wine and…something.

She was by the fire place. One outstretched arm bracing her against the wall, perhaps the only thing keeping her skinny frame upright versus the violence of her sobs. She did not seem aware of him, or if she was did not care. In her other hand, the dagger she always kept at her hip. She was staring at herself in the mirror on the mantle. No, not just staring. _Seething_. She hissed at the reflection, and with a sudden movement that spooked him, stunned him into inaction, she grabbed aggressively at her loosely bound ponytail, slipped the knife up and underneath her tresses and sawed them off. She cried out with the effort of it.

Anders crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, so thin he felt it might shatter under his grip. She struggled, wide-eyed, as if seeing him for the first time; a stranger, an intruder in her bedroom. She was too weak to fight well and shortly loosed her grip on the blade's handle, allowing him to wrest it away from her with ease. He threw it clear across the room before spinning her around to face him. He held her firmly by the shoulders, inspecting those wild green eyes that did not seem to register anything.

She looked terrible. Her usually fine round face appeared gaunt and weathered from lack of nourishment and sleep. Deep, dark fatigue circles hung beneath eyes like empty wells. Pale wet cheeks dappled with hot vermillion flush; her nostrils angry, bruised and raw. Blue tinged lips dry and cracking.

"Salem," he said quietly, evenly, despite the utter despair he felt at seeing her like this. This—she—was wrong, gravely wrong. Justice grew restless, not angry or violent but somehow…excited? _**She sings**_. It was confusing. Everything was so confusing. "Salem, it's me…Anders. Do you hear me?"

Her mouth made the shape of his name but gave no voice to it. Again, and again. Her eyes came gradually into focus and he began to feel she was actually looking at him, not through him. A breathy sigh, she exhaled more than uttered the two small syllables of his name. Her breath, a heady cocktail of fortified wine and…

Before he had finished analysing, her mouth was on his, her cracked bottom lip chafing against stubble. His mind fogged over for an instant; three disparate voices screaming and scrabbling for precedence until he could do naught but shut them out. Long had he envisioned, in the relative privacy of his mind, how her lips might feel. Stolen moments of tender fantasy, so far removed from this terrible reality, this broken and vulnerable version of her. She tasted of wine and sorrow, with a familiar undertone, the subtlest of flavours that he suddenly recognised all too well. The sweetness of it centred him, ignited a spark his core. Lyrium.

He regained control of his faculties and forced her away. "What have you done?" he snapped. The smaller bottles, piles of them; she'd been quaffing mana potions. Looking at her now he noticed the residue around her nostrils; not raw from a handkerchief, no, but _burned_ from huffing dust. He was incensed by her blatant stupidity. _Breathe_.

In her addled state she was oblivious to his exasperation, stuck instead in a kind of dreamer's state, swayed by outside influence but shaped by her mind's whimsy. Her bony fingers sought him out, tugging at his jacket buckles. Wrath entwined with worry, amalgamated with years of pent-up frustration provoked by her touch, and he was not breathing. He pushed her, hard, harder than he intended and she went flailing backwards, her slight frame slamming against the wardrobe with a violent thud and a bewildered whine.

Confusion gave way to circumspection. Her teeth clenched and she growled softly; a rare moment of focus flickered in her eyes and her hands ignited. With a casual flick of a wrist, he threw up an arcane shield as she hurled a burning blast of power at him. It hit the shield with a gust of heat and enough force to drive him backwards, but the barrier did its job, dissipating the fireball into embers all but spent by the time they had flittered to the floor. Panicked by a dark surge with him, he cast a mild sleep spell over her, as much for her protection as for his own.

_**Treachery!**_ Justice raged, bubbling beneath skin that had started to crack and burn blue.

_No_. Anders jammed his eyes shut and focused hard on the rise and fall of his chest, cycled through a memory full of images of her, candid moments captured by clandestine glances; years of laughs and smiles, thousands of them, no two the same. _No_, he reasserted.

_**End her misery. Clearly it is what she wishes**__. _

_ Even if that was true, you are Justice, not Mercy. There is no justice to be served here._

_** To eliminate her is justice for the cause. She is a distraction from our fight.**_

_ She is the __**reason**__ that I fight. _

And then the spirit was silent. The fissures in Anders' skin sealed, his vision cleared. He felt exhausted in body and in soul. Were he a weaker man, she would be dead. Were he a stronger one, it never would have happened at all.

Anders shook the useless thoughts from his mind and went to her, collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor. He wondered when she had last eaten, but guessed from the alarming way the skin draped over her protruding collar bone that she had not much at all in the days since Leandra's death, and the lyrium had taken its toll.

"Stupid little girl," he muttered.

Anders scooped her up with little effort and carried her sleeping form to the bed. His spell had since worn off, but in her state of exhaustion, had given way to a deep, natural sleep. He brushed the hair back from her ashen face and frowned sadly. An errant thought of curling up beside her skipped through his mind; he quashed it, sorting the mess of blankets from the floor and covering her to the chin, as if to prove his resolve. Or at least remove temptation.

How would he ever gain control over _**Vengeance**_ if even his _own_ thoughts aspired to his ruin?

Anders sighed, went to the second floor landing, and called down to Bodahn to please send for Varric.


	3. Chapter 3

3

The midsummer sun relents into dusk, the air cools as it slinks behind the western hills. Sundown is melodious in the township, as the men return from a long day spent toiling in the surrounding fields, or forests from the hunt. Their women cluck and coo, corralling them into homes rich with the aromas of a humble feast lovingly prepared. Over dinner there is banter and time for bonding, a doling of life lessons to children who will not be aware of having been taught anything until many years from now. After the meal, those same children are marched to bed and time given over to adult pleasures. Baths are drawn, hot and soothing to tender muscles forged by hard labour. The remains of the day are spent in quiet repose, intimate stories exchanged of the day's events, fears and concerns addressed and quietened, and before too long, lanterns are quenched as the siren of slumber calls so that the cycle may begin anew on the morrow.

It is that careful, measured way of things that sets her at ease. She does not want to leave, to have to pack up in the night and run as they have done so many times before. Sometimes her guilt consumed her, and she wished and wished and wished her magic away, anything to give her family a reprieve. The constant running was no satisfying life, hard on all of them, but especially on her mother and younger brother. Each time they had to flee, she felt another piece of the fragile bond between herself and Carver splinter and slip away on the tide of time.

But for now, she is eighteen years old and full of hope and vibrancy. It has been a year since they settled here on the outskirts of the small hamlet of Lothering, a glorious year of remote tranquility. Life is simple here, the people warm and accommodating, and despite the Chantry sitting prominently in the town centre, she does not fear the Templars here as she had elsewhere. They greet her cordially when she visits the market—at least two are outright flirtatious—and show no sign that they suspect she is anything other than a vivacious young girl going about her life of contented simplicity.

She spends her days tending sheep and goats and chickens, picking vegetables from the patch, helping mother with various and sundry chores. She reads at length, studies from her father's tomes and tutors her little sister—whenever the poor thing is not being harassed by her twin. It is a normal, regular existence that a family of their irregularity was rarely afforded.

Bethany sits in a patch of wildflowers adjacent to the house, humming pleasing melodies of her own invention that seem to fill the air. Her black curls twinkle in the pink glow of sunset. A ways behind her is Carver, sword in hand. He has been practicing much of the day, and now his earnest training has devolved into rambunctious spinning, jumping and inspired tomfoolery. She feels an urge to chide him, to warn him to be careful, but she holds back. He is a thirteen year old boy, resentful enough without her interference, and besides, he takes his swordplay at least as seriously as she takes her own, magical studies; perhaps more. She lets him have his fun.

She glances over her shoulder, through the front window of their modest home. In the living room, she spies her parents, and they are dancing to Bethany's slow, sweet song. Father's arm is wrapped tight around mother's waist, and with his other he holds mother's hand against his chest, over his heart. They stare at each other in a way that speaks of perfect devotion; two people holding fast amidst a raging river of calamity. Father grins wickedly and suddenly dips her low; mother laughs in surprise and shrieks his name until her rights her, pulling her even closer than before. Salem's heart swells in her chest and she smiles contentedly, overwhelmed by the perfection of this place.

And yet there is a niggling in the back of her mind, some shapeless thought, some shadow, that tells her that this place is not right, and almost _too_ flawless.

A familiar pair of hands grips her shoulders and give a light squeeze, pulling her focus away from those uninvited and confusing thoughts. A bewitching, smoky scent fills the air, which her brain assures her is her father's. She turns into his arms and holds him tight.

"We're home now, kitten," he soothes. His voice is deep and gentle; she feels the rumble of it in his chest, which is otherwise quiet.

From inside the house, her mother's voice calls out, rousing them to dinner. "Come on. Let's not keep her waiting, you know how she gets." He grins and musses her hair, and they walk arm-in-arm into the house.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Orana had been quick to work tidying the disastrous mess, and promptly had the place back to looking respectable. Varric lazed in an armchair in the corner, scribbling in his journal as he was wont to do, no doubt concocting some grand and elegant tale of Hawke triumphing over a vicious dragon that threatened to devour a basket of horrified puppies. He appeared perfectly unfazed, which was mildly irritating to Anders, but that was just the dwarf's way. He kept his cards close to his chest; but that was also where he kept his friends. Anders, on the other hand, was transparent; perched on a chair at her bedside, arms folded on the mattress, head resting upon them tiredly, watching fixedly. She had slept fitfully. He had not slept.

"I just don't get it," Varric finally said after some hours of silence. He was not one to draw comfort in quiet. "What was she thinking?"

"She wasn't. She just wanted to feel…something else," Anders replied groggily.

"She _wanted_ to feel crazy? Hawke has her moments, sure, but I never took her for the kind to actively seek it out."

"No, she—" The mage half-sighed, "A dwarf couldn't possibly understand."

Varric scoffed. "Blondie, _nobody_ understands lyrium like a dwarf. A lot of our ancestors died to that shit before we were in a position to refine it and ply indigent surfacers with it. And need I remind you what that idol did to my brother?"

Anders shook his head in near-frustration. "That's not what I mean. The lyrium, it was just a means to an end. It's different for mages. " He paused, struggling to think of a way to explain a thing he had never had to give so much thought to before, because it just _was_. "Mana is more than just some resource we use for casting spells. It's an intrinsic part of what a mage is, of our very physiology. When we draw on it for power, it…it's like the difference between walking and running; the mana burns up the same as physical energy, and the more we burn, the more exhausted we become. It's inextricably connected to everything that makes us who we are, everything we do; it feeds off of and into our thoughts…our emotions."

He closed his eyes, his breaths becoming slower, more deliberate. He began to visualise a bright white light in his mind, tender and soothing like a lover's embrace. Warmth danced around him, even Justice was mollified by the reverie.

"The lyrium, it's like fanning at embers. It's an ignition, a sudden surge of power. It's…euphoria. Like your soul is singing. It's absolution."

Varric cocked an eyebrow. "Well now I don't wonder that she did this to herself. Now I wonder that you mages aren't all high all the time."

"It's fleeting, just a flash. But…" Anders looked at her sleeping face, no rest in it, no peace, and he wondered what she dreamed of. One idle finger reached out, slyly tracing the contour of her wrist until his weary wits became aware of its treason and forced it back to submission.

"But to someone, say, in a vulnerable enough state… Maker's breath." Varric heaved a weighted sigh. "She…will be okay though, right?"

The question went unanswered, as Anders' body won the fight and finally slipped into slumber.

* * *

Thunder roared overhead, bolting Anders upright in the chair he only barely balanced on. Night had fallen while he slept, the dark of it cloaked in another layer of stormy gloom. The only relief from blackness, from the frequent crackles of lightning sheeting across the sky, was little comfort at all when accompanied by calamitous cacophonies that shook the walls.

The room had grown dim. All the lanterns had long burned down, and the fireplace was waning. He could hear Varric in another room, perhaps downstairs talking to the dog, or the dwarves. On the stand by the bed was a tray with a bowl of something he could not quite identify in the murkiness. Cold, he noted, dipping his finger in; some kind of broth, surprisingly rich in flavour. A hunk of bread adorned the tray, tough and dry from exposure.

His back ached from the awkward position, but he did feel somewhat refreshed, if ravenous. He grabbed the hunk of bread and tore into it gluttonously, like some greedy vulture.

_** This obsession with her must end. Your mortal time is fleeting and we sit here wasting it.**_

_ Not now._

_** Justice must be done.**_

_ Sometimes I wish it could be __**un**__done._

Silence. Hands begin to shake, stomach churn, head throb.

_Breathe_.

"Carver," she cried out, jolting him from his meditation. Her open eyes hung in reverie, her mouth a twisted grimace of mourning. She was there but not there; she was in the Deep Roads, three years past, reliving the moment she looked her brother in the eyes and took his life.

"Salem," he mouthed, her name like molasses in his throat. He moved to the edge of the bed so he could better inspect her; gently lifting one eyelid and then the other, examining dilated pupils that had consumed in blackness all but a small ring of emerald. They darted back and forth, searching for something to capture their focus, but finding nothing.

"I'm sorry, Carver," she breathed. "You deserved better than this; than me. I failed you." A thin hand reached up and brushed Anders'—Carver's—cheek. "I should have been better, smarter. I should have made you stay home, like mother wanted."

He reached for the bowl of cold broth, stirring the congealing mess with the spoon. "Salem, shhh, it's all right. Here, can open your mouth for me? You need to eat."

"Carver?" Her brow furrowed and she leaned forward, gripping his arm for support. There was desperation in her voice, mottled by despondency. "Please, Carver, forgive me. Please. I'll look after mother, just like you asked, I promise. I just need you to forgive me."

Anders chewed his lip hesitantly. She grew more agitated, and if she became too unruly it would be impossible to get her to take a meal. Her searching eyes teemed with suffering long-stifled, and he could not believe he was about to do this. "I…I forgive you. Now please, eat this."

A near-smile crossed her lips and she relaxed against the pillows. With a shaking hand, he raised a spoonful of cold broth to her mouth and waited patiently as she swallowed it down, then another, and another, until the bowl was empty. She seemed satisfied, though he doubted by the meal.

"Thank you, brother," she whispered contentedly, before closing her eyes and drifting back off to sleep.

He felt vile, and utterly ashamed.

_** The stench of demons is upon her.**_

_ What?_

_** They court her. She is a beacon, burning bright, and uncontrolled. She will fall to them, and when she does, I will end her. I will have justice.**_

Anders snatched Hawke by the shoulders, shaking her long and violently, to no avail; she would not wake. That stupid sleep spell! With an anguished yell he threw the empty bowl across the room, where it hit the wall and bloomed into a hundred porcelain shards. Thunder roared overhead, as he wallowed in uselessness, hopelessness; he felt a prisoner of consequence, and Justice's promise echoed through his soul.

_ I will end her._


	5. Chapter 5

5

It is the end of another gloriously unproductive, uneventful week. She and Bethany have spent much of it terrorizing the Hightown merchants and coyly shadowing city guards and Templars, distracting them from patrols with frivolous flirtations. Their occasional encounters with the Knight-Captain were particularly satisfying, as he fumbled and stammered his way through the simplest of conversations. He always took his leave looking quite flustered and flushed. If there was ever a reason that she had feared the Templars, she could not recall it now; perhaps she had dreamed it.

"I think he's quite taken with you, sister!" Bethany squeals after one such endearingly awkward rendezvous.

She waves her hand and laughs. "Nonsense, Bethany. What could he possibly see in me that he doesn't see threefold in your darling curls and big, doe eyes? No, sister, I've not conceit enough to deny that _all_ attentions are directed toward you alone, and my own presence only acknowledged as a mere politeness." Bethany's cheeks turns brilliant vermillion, which only makes her lovelier, and goads her sister on more. "I can see it now. You will have your pick of any man in Kirkwall—oh, the Viscount's son would be ever so perfect—while mother wades with vexation through your scraps trying to find a willing consolation prize for her eldest spinster daughter. Oh, Bethany, I hope that you will have a room for me in the Viscount's palace, and that your good husband Saemus won't mind having to provide for your poor, loveless sister in perpetuity. I could never be such a burden on mother and father, you see. It would shame me _too much_."

"You are such a wretch! But after that performance, you might be right; I wonder that any man would have you!" she cries, and the both of them devolve into fitful laughter.

"Come, gather your silks, pretty girl, and let's head home for dinner before father sends out a search party for _you_." She begins to run as Bethany playfully slaps her arm.

They round the corner and come upon the looming stone façade of the estate, there is a twinge in her gut that gives her pause. A faint whisper caresses her ear, but she can't quite make out. She turns, trying to find its source, when her eyes lock upon a ragged form at the end of the street; a dishevelled husk of a man, whose desolate amber eyes, even at this distance, bore into her.

"Who is that?" she quietly asks Bethany.

Bethany turns, and her countenance darkens. She has never seen her sister's face so grim. "That man is dangerous, sister. Pay him no mind. Come on," she says, tugging on her arm.

"He looks so…so sad. Maybe I can help him. At least give him some coin for a meal."

Bethany persists in pulling her away. "No, sister. He…he is a dangerous apostate. They say he consorts with demons."

"An apostate? With demons? Then we should tell the Templars." The words feel wrong, like they do not fit mouth. And the man is gone, disappeared in an instant like some strange mirage, but her mind will not relinquish the image of him entirely, nor can she shake the sensation that he is in some way significant. Familiar.

"Forget it, sister. Come, let's get inside before we're late for supper."

The table is already set by the time they reach the dining room. Father stands at the sidebar with Carver, the two of them indulging in a glass of whiskey before dinner. He beams at the sight of his daughters walking in, arm in arm, and there is such pride, such contentment in it. Carver turns and smiles warmly; he is dressed in his city guard regalia, and she notices for the first time what a fine and handsome young man her little brother has matured into. Not content to live the noble's life, he had joined the guard upon their arrival in Kirkwall, and his skill with both blade and wit saw him quickly raised to the rank of lieutenant. He bunked in the barracks with the rest of the guard, but never missed their weekly family dinners.

"Ah, you're home!" Mother exclaimed, bringing from the kitchen the last of the trimmings. Despite their wealth, she still insisted on cooking every meal herself, although it had been quite easy to convince her to leave the cleaning to the manor staff. She turned her attention to the men, "All right, you two, that's enough for now. Everyone, sit."

Over dinner they exchange stories gathered in the week since their last get-together. Carver regales them with tales of his battles with bandits on the Wounded Coast, which prompts Mother to fret over him. Father assures her of their son's capability, that there's no need to worry so, and then to soften the mood, mentions how profits from the mine are soaring since he struck the trade deal with Starkhaven. And just as well, he adds, in light of Miss Bethany's ever-expanding wardrobe.

"Oh, Malcolm, leave her be. Besides, if she's to attract the attentions of Viscount's boy, she can't be seen in any common old threads. Although, Comptessa De Launcet says she's heard bitter whispers amongst the other noble families that Saemus _already_ has eyes for our darling Bethany."

"And why shouldn't she! There's not a face in Hightown that comes close in beauty, and certainly no mind or disposition behind most of them," Father remarks sourly.

"Mother! Father!" Bethany exclaims, the blush from earlier returning.

Salem laughs knowingly. "I told you, sister! I shall start picking out furniture and drapery for my room immediately."

"Then, I suppose I shall have to pick out a suitable husband for my darling eldest," Mother continues.

Bethany jumps on the opportunity. "The Knight-Captain Cullen is positively _smitten_ with her, Mother. You should see how he fumbles for words when we see him at the market. And the determined way he stares her when she's not looking, you'd think she were a mage or something!"

"And I'm the wretch?" Salem replies, throwing her wadded up napkin across the table at her cackling witch of a sibling.

Mother ponders gravely, then smiles with satisfaction. "Yes, I have seen the Knight-Captain patrolling in the market from time to time. He is rather handsome—though of course not at handsome as you, dear Malcolm," she adds, patting her husband's arm with a wink. "Are Templars even permitted to marry? They're not Brothers, I suppose. And Knight-Captain is a very respectable sort of rank, isn't it?"

"Second only to the Knight-Commander herself," Carver says, then dryly adds, "and if you ask most people, the Templars wield the real power in this city."

"Perhaps we should have him for supper some night, get to know this young man of yours."

Bethany laughs uproariously.

"Oh, why stop there, mother! Invite Saemus Dumar along as well, and we can have a fabulous double wedding, right here at the estate! We can invite all of Kirkwall and Bethany can spend the night fraternizing and letting her vassals fawn all over her. Perhaps we can even orchestrate the entire evening around multiple dress changes, so that Saemus can see her in all her elegant plumage! What man could resist such a well-dressed roast!" The dramatic suggestion is answered with a series of projectile peas and a lump of bread.

"All right, all right, enough!" Father bellows with a laugh. "I can only hope, should we ever have the misadventure of entertaining any of your prospective suitors, that you girls are able to curb your desire to fling the meal about."

"Honestly, father, these girls will be the death of us both," Carver grumbles.

"Oh-ho-ho, brother. Don't think yourself immune to mother's manipulations. Once she has us sorted, you best believe she'll set her sights on finding you a suitably demure wife to ply her with many surly grandchildren." Carver's hue turns to match Bethany's, and he is silenced.

After dinner, they retire to the parlour. Salem spreads out on the rug before the fireplace with Interceptor. The warhound rolls on his back and growls affectionately as she scratches at his belly. Father retrieves his lute from the corner and sits down in his favourite chair to play. Bethany curls up at his feet, her head resting on his knee, and begins to hum her sweet melodies in accompaniment. Mother sits in her rocking chair, smiling at her daughter's song, darning socks, while Carver merely sits in quiet contemplation.

_This is what it means to be happy_, she thinks, but the thought surprises her, as if not her own. _Why would you ever want anything else?_

* * *

Her body, slick with sweat, twitched and trembled, sprawled gracelessly in the twisted sheets, the evidence of her turmoil. An unpleasant combination of dream and detox, her shattered body traded one abuse for another.

Anders sprawled asleep on the floor beside the bed, his rest equally rest_less_. Interceptor, the giant oaf, had nestled his muscular form along the mage's side, his enormous head resting on the man's chest. Errant feathers tickled his nose with the rise and fall of Anders' breathing, eliciting a steady regularity of warm, wet huffs at which Varric could not suppress his cackling.

The dwarf dipped a cloth into the basin of cool water Orana had provided. "You know, Hawke, if you don't wake up soon, I think your man here might get tired of waiting and just run away with your dog. You should see the way they're canoodling! Shameless." He wrung the bulk of the moisture from the cloth, then sidled onto the edge of the bed and wiped her flushed, perspiring face. "Now, now, don't be that way; we all know about you two. We don't all agree with it, mind you, but we all know. And if someone would just tell _him_ about it, we could all just get on with things."

It had been three days now since Bodahn had come careening into his room in the Hanged Man, with his vague and breathless ravings about some occurrence at the estate, though he had been sketchy on the details. Varric probably wouldn't have believed the details had he not witnessed them for himself.

Several of the others had stopped by in the days since Leandra's death, to check in, to offer support. Varric had made up some excuse or another about her condition. Flu. Dysentery. The ague. Gout. Cholera. Genital blight. He could scarcely remember what lies he'd told now, which was itself indicative of how badly this whole thing was getting to him. Varric Tethras _never_ lost track of a story while it was still under his control.

Varric sighed and rubbed his weary eyes. His flask was empty and he badly needed a drink, but it would have to wait until Anders woke up. He did not begrudge the mage his rest; in fact, he had insisted upon it. The boy had been driving himself to the point of utter exhaustion in his attention to her. But, sure as Varric left for even a minute to refresh his liquor supply, Blondie would wake and panic that she'd been left alone, and he did not particularly feel like dealing with a volatile, raging abomination today.

"You know, Hawke," he started, rinsing and wringing out the sweat-soaked cloth, "I still remember that first day I met you. Slinking out of Bartrand's office with that daffy brother of yours, like a kicked puppy." He chuckled. "You've always worn your noble heart on your sleeve, which puts me in an awkward spot, by the way. Do you have any idea how hard it is to make up impressive shit about someone who's so flaming diplomatic all the time? The Chantry should erect a shrine to you, er, except for that whole 'mage' thing, I guess."

Hawke groaned and stirred as he draped the damp cloth over her scorching forehead, but showed no signs of waking.

Varric sighed again. "Look, Hawke, I'm not good at this shit, so I'm just going to say the first thing that comes into my head, and never speak of it again. You've been a better friend to me than I could have imagined. You stuck by me, even when my rat brother left us for dead in the blighted Deep Roads. And even with all you lost on that flaming expedition, you stopped me from making a decision that I probably would have ended up regretting. Bartrand might be a pain in my ass, but there's hope for him, for us, because of you.

"Andraste's flaming ass…I guess what I'm trying to say is, you're pretty much the strongest woman I've ever met—save for Bianca, of course—and I'm confident that whatever is going on in that pretty little magical head of yours, you can beat it, if you want to. And in case it's still not clear, you should want to, because there's a whole swag of people out here who love you and want to see you safe. And two of them are here, waiting."

He glanced at the pile of fur and feathers on the floor.

"Three, if you include me."

* * *

She is in Bartrand's office, or some vague approximation of it. The scale of things seems wrong, perspective slightly off-kilter, and the whole world awash in a shimmering yellow haze. The streets are devoid of any appreciable life, though she feels a cloying presence that sticks in her throat and stings her eyes like foundry smoke. The sun above looks wrong, the light fake—nothing casts a shadow—and way above in the flickering sky floats the ominous silhouette of a twisted black city, ever-present, no matter where she looks.

Her body feels weak, her head heavy, and a giddy confusion grips her mind, trying to pull it in a thousand different directions. Where is Bethany? Carver? Mother and father? They were just here… Her finery is gone, replaced by worn leather, roughly patched and stiff with dried blood. Her hands, these are not her hands, not these; twisted, scarred and scorched.

The acrid air fills her lungs and she is reminded of the Deep Roads. It is a deathly stench, unnatural. Blighted Deep Roads. Blurred images streak across her vision, faces…a dwarf, and her brother. A white haired elf; he growls. She conjures light from her fingertips, she heals his wounds. She is…a mage?

"No…this isn't right…" Her voice reverberates on the still air.

Suddenly Bethany is before her, taking her hands. She is ice. "Come sister, come back home."

"I-I am a m-mage?" she stammers.

"Of course not, silly. Come on, Mother and Father are waiting."

She staggers backwards, pulling her hands away and gripping the sides of her head, which feels as though it is being rent asunder from the inside. "Father is dead…mother…Carver…Bethany." Her eyes shoot up, locking gaze with the entity before her. "You died, in Lothering. You're not real."

There is a gentle emptiness about her, a lacking smile as cold as her skin had been. "It was bad dream, sister. We're all fine, I promise."

She nods and lets Bethany take her hands again, leading her back towards the estate. One shaky step in front of the other, the ground seems to tilt beneath her as she walks, as if displaced by her shifting weight. In her periphery, she sees him again, the ragged figure with the piercing eyes, but when she turns to face him, he fades from view. _Anders_, she hears. The word makes her skin bristle, makes her ears tingle, makes her tongue itch.

"**COME**!" The grasp on her arm becomes a vice grip, the gentle guiding a tugging so forceful it pulls her off balance and she tumbles through the open door of the estate, into vicious blackness.

_ You can be so happy here…_

There are hands all over her, hundreds of them, caressing and exploring, grabbing and pulling, entangled in her hair. Hot, cold, each one sears her skin even through the leathers. She cries out in the darkness, reaching for anything to grab onto.

_ No more pain…_

She writhes and screams. With the subsequent gasping breaths, smoke fills her lungs, but it is no natural smoke. It is thick, viscous; tar. She coughs and kicks, spits and struggles.

_ You just have to let us in…._

"NO!"

_ Let us…_

Her lungs are heavy with pitch, and they fill more quickly than she can disgorge it.

_ Let us in…_

Fear and anger bubble within, in equal measure, fed by desperation. She tries to centre herself, tries to regain control, but her mind is clouding over with the effort of the fight, and she entertains thoughts of letting go.

_ My little girl has become so strong…_

"Mother…" she chokes.

_ You've always made me so proud…_

Her mother's words are the last thing she hears before the world is engulfed in flame, and she allows it to consume her.


	6. Chapter 6

6

The day after waking, she sent Varric and Anders away, despite their protests, assuring them that she was fine. Interceptor had barely left her side, and Orana and Bodahn were diligent and attentive to her needs, but more importantly, unobtrusive at a time when she desperately needed to be alone. Though she had accommodated brief and uncomfortable visits with most of her closest friends since word got out that she was improved, none but the two who had been with her from the beginning knew the _true_ cause of her chronic illness—though some had given her some odd looks which she would have to question Varric about later—and she had not been in a mood to explain. She doubted she would ever be.

After five days, she was finally starting to look like her old self, even if she did not quite feel in accord. The colour had returned to her cheeks, the dark circles under her eyes retreated significantly, and though she was still a little emaciated, she was eating well. Orana had offered to neaten up her hair, and she had sat in shameful silence as the nimble elven hands worked to fashion the uneven mess into something verging on actual elegance. Hawke appreciated the girl's diffidence; she asked no questions, just worked with quiet dignity and excused herself when she was done.

She was taking her afternoon tea in the armchair by the window, lost in hollow thought, when a knock sounded at the door, followed by a happy bark from Interceptor, who had well and truly claimed the bed for his own. She turned, irritated in spite of herself, to see which well-wisher she would have to feign interest in this time.

"A-Anders…" He had not been back since she sent him away. His face looked drawn.

He lingered in the doorway anxiously. It had been different before, when she'd been ill; necessity trumped decorum, and even then he had found himself having to stave off his most persistent of inappropriate thoughts. Now that she was awake, it felt fully improper to call upon her like this, in her bedroom, of all places.

"I'm sorry, I…won't stay. I just wanted to see if you were all right, make sure you had everything you needed." He gestured toward the room, the dog, the tray of tea and slice of cake. "And it seems that you do, so, I should just leave you to it."

"Wait—" She jumped up from her chair, knocking the tray and sending a spoon clattering to the floor. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? I could send for more tea."

"I shouldn't, I just—"

"Please." She looked down and away, suddenly heart-achingly vulnerable.

He nodded and stepped fully inside, feeling the need to duck, like the ceiling was caving in. His mouth felt dry, his palms clammy. _Maker, you're nervous? Honestly?_ He had no reason to be, barring of course that just being around her, he had lost all ability to reason. He shambled about, scratching the cheerful mabari behind the ear, sat down on the side of the bed, then shot back up when the unseemliness, the intimacy, of the gesture struck him. He was painfully aware of her quizzical eyes upon him. _Breathe_.

She hugged herself, rocking on her heels and staring at the floor, his obvious discomfort infecting her already frayed confidence.

He started to say something, but she silenced him. "You don't have to say anything, and I don't need the lecture. I know what I did was monumentally stupid. I don't expect your forgiveness, or your understanding, but regardless, I just want you to know that…I'm sorry." She looked up for the first time since her outburst, found his eyes. "For everything."

"You don't have to apologise, you never—" He stopped himself. "Do you need to talk about it?"

She swallowed hard and sat back down in the armchair, shaking hands reaching for the teapot, clattering it against the rim of the cup. She appeared grateful when he swooped in and took both from her and poured. As he handed her the cup, the sleeves of her housecoat slid up, the bright afternoon sun illuminating a series of faint pink scars that trailed from wrist to midway up her left forearm. His eyes narrowed, fists clenched, and in the seat of his soul, Justice began to stir in the familiar fashion.

She noticed the stiffening in him, traced the line of his eyes. She set the cup down and raised her hands in surrender, which exposed the marks fully to him and only seemed aggravated him more. "It's not what you think."

"I could forgive you anything, _anything_, but _**this**_. Blood magic! Are you insane?"

"Anders, I didn't—"

"No wonder the demons were all over you. And here I was, actually _worried_ about you. But now I see what this was all about. You're as bad as Merrill; just a stupid little girl toying with powers beyond her comprehension. Did she teach you? I'll wring her neck." The gold of his eyes took on a faint blue hue, growing brighter as he seethed. "Justice wanted to cut you down, but I _defended_ you, and now—"

"I am no blood mage, Anders. It wasn't for power, I just…I wanted to die," she blurted, shuddering at the implication of his interrupted thought.

The force of her disgraced confession sapped him of his anger, his will, his strength to stand, driving him back into the adjacent chair. Justice retreated.

"I told you it wasn't what you thought."

She chose not to dwell on the haste of his judgement. She had learned long ago that she would have to make certain concessions, in light of his 'unique circumstances'. Perhaps foolishly, she thought herself capable of helping to temper the spirit inside him, though she had never rightly considered the possibility that she might become the _cause_ of his agitation, and certainly not the consequences. She abolished he notion from her mind.

She shrugged slightly and took another sip of the tea, now cold and unappealing. "I changed my mind, I guess." She absently fingered the scars, staring out the window, her eyes fixed on some distant point in either time or space. "Healing never was my preeminent talent. And as it turns out, wine does absolutely nothing to improve my competence. Strange." The joke fell flat.

"I could take care of them for you," he choked, struggling with the layers of conflict raging in his chest.

"No. No, I need them. To remember." She exhaled shakily through pursed lips. "My whole life, I've tried to be the strong one. I tried to be the rock for Bethany, so she wouldn't be afraid of her power. I tried to shield her from all the anger and hate in the world, all the danger. I just wanted her to have a normal life, as normal a life as anyone with our talents can hope for, anyway. We were ten years in Lothering, it was the longest we had ever stayed in one place, and I began to hope that we were finally free from that life of constant flight.

"When father passed, I took it upon myself to keep them safe. I had to continue to train Bethany, to look after mother. I had to protect them all. The wolves, they hadn't stopped hunting us, I understood that then. And they never would. Things changed after that. When he died, a part of my mother died with him. She tried to hide it but she was never the same; she was always just a little bit empty, you know? Not cold, exactly, but distant. Carver resented my efforts, resented _me_. He felt stupid, he said; the stupidest person in a family full of mages. He always felt cheated, like the Maker had cursed him because _he_ should have been the eldest. He should have been the strongest, the leader."

"He was certainly… indignant."

A short, sharp laugh escaped her as she recalled the heated conversations Anders and Carver had shared all those years ago. _Magey_, her brother had called him, so laden with derision.

"We argued constantly. It didn't matter what I tried, he always rose up against me with fists. I would give anything to remember him that way. Instead all I see when I think of my brother is the fear in his tainted black eyes, right before I sunk my knife into his heart."

"It was a mercy," he offered, though she knew that. A mercy to him; a torment to her.

"Aveline, she resented me for a long time over Wesley. She knew, too, in her heart of hearts that what I did was _right_, but that didn't mean it felt any less wrong. He was her husband _first_, and tainted _second_, and at the time, in her eyes, I murdered him. I didn't understand how she could feel that way until I had to make that cut again, against my own brother. I loved my brother, ass that he was, and what I did was _right_, it was necessary. I spared him a slow, agonising death—or worse. A mercy. But mercy doesn't supersede love. Nothing does." She paused, contemplating her next thought sourly. "In a way, I understand what Quentin was trying to do. He just wanted his love back."

He shook his head. "Salem, no—"

She ignored him and continued. "The Blight, the darkspawn…They took so much from me." Tears etched a glistening trail down her pale cheeks. "Poor Bethany. She was so pure. She was the best of us, gentle and kind, stronger than she knew, stronger than me. She didn't deserve her Fate. She died protecting mother from that… that beast. It should have been me, should have been my body left to rot in the blighted Wilds, Bethany should be the one here with you. Justice would like her more."

"Stop," he growled, but she was lost in her lament. He wanted to grab her, shake her. _Hold her. Kiss her._

"Mother blamed me, you know? I can still hear her words echoing in my mind. 'How could you let her charge off like that?' And then when Carver didn't come home. She didn't say anything, but I felt it. There was a rift between us the past three years. Mother loved me, loved us all, I know that. I do. But she lived for her family, and piece by piece, she wilted away. I failed her. I failed father, and Bethany. I failed Carver. His last words to me were 'Look after mother. You're all she has left'. And now mother is dead as well. Everything I love just turns to ash."

"Salem…You don't know how lucky you are, to have had a family who loved you, who happily gave up everything to keep you and your sister safe. When the pain fades, that's what will matter."

She blinked frantically and, sniffling, wiped the wetness from her cheeks. "I'm sorry. All I wanted to do was thank you, for what you did, and look at me, spilling my soul. Varric said you were looking out for me the whole time. I appreciate it."

Anders did not know what to say when all his words felt so meaningless. Maybe he wasn't supposed to say anything, maybe he was just supposed to sit and listen. Maybe that's all she needed, just a release. Instead, he smiled weakly and didn't say all the things he wanted to say, had wanted to say for years. Now more than ever the distance he had kept felt justified, and now more than ever he wanted to close it, caution and consequence be damned.

"You shouldn't thank me. I can't say what would have happened if you hadn't woken up," he said quietly.

"If I hadn't woken up, it would have been because I'd given in. And Justice would have been perfectly validated in striking me down." Hawke's visage grew bleak. "I tasted it, Anders. In those moments, before I woke up. I felt that demon swelling inside of me. I was so very close to just giving in. I was so tired of fighting, so tired of losing. I felt I had nothing left, but I realised that wasn't true. There is still one thing." She shot a smile to the goofy looking dog passed out on her bed. "Well. Two."

He stood abruptly; his face suddenly flushed, the room suddenly warm and stifling, his hands shaking at the behest of no spirit but his own foolish heart. "I should go. I just wanted to see that you were okay. I've imposed for long enough."

She gave a small nod, gazing out the window. "If that's what you want," she said summarily.

_ Want? No. Maker. No._

_** Let us put this foolishness behind us once and for all. There is work to be done, and you have squandered enough time on these dalliances already.**_

He lingered at her side longer than he intended, longer than was appropriate. He forced his indolent feet to action, before his hands took action of their own, and headed for the door.

"Anders," she called.

He froze. _Breathe_. _Andraste's knickerweasels, she makes things so har—difficult! Difficult. _

"I've made my feelings clear, and I'm not going force the issue. I know where you stand, and I can respect it. I even understand it, I do. But you should also know that I won't give up on you, and I'm not going anywhere except with you. Whatever road you take, I'm going to be beside you. My hand is yours. You need only reach for it."

_ Go to her._

"Your hair," he whispered, hoarsely, in a way that betrayed much, but said little. "I like it."

And with that, he walked away.

One foot in front of the other.

Habit guided him home.


End file.
